I love you Darling
by Rojira
Summary: Loving his was as simple as chewing needles. And the more she thought about it, the more she felt about to lose herself. But she didn't worry. She was getting better, wasn't she? She even told the doctor. She was getting better. (M for disturbing themes, no gore and no smut.)


**Please read this first!**

I'm french.

This is translated by myself from the french version of this story called "Je vous aime." So, take that in count please.

Secondly, in the french version of this, Silva and Kikyo use "vous" which is actually a very formal way to adress someone, and is considered as odd and outdated when used in couples, even a married couple, and I based the big majority of this One Shot on that.

Secondly, it's like, 7 AM here and I haven't slept. I wrote the original fic and translated it this very night. So there might be some mistakes PLEASE just tell me if you find them. Thanks.

More after the text.

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Love between Kikyo and Silva was one of those romance you only hear about in old dusty books about past times. A courteous and distant love, the kind in which you show affection with « Misters » « Misses » and « I love you darlings ». A love between two people with identically sick minds, with goals and actions analogously deranged.

Of course, their marriage was initiated by love, but the basics of their relationship still was forever their comparable ways of killing as easily as if they were drinking tea.

Kikyo Zoldyck sighed. That was one of the favourite conversation piece she liked to entertain with herself, her marriage. Her love life and her kids. Sometimes, she laughed at herself and she laughed at her basic preoccupations. Her husband, her kids, her house and her dog. Topics so basic they could've been boring.

But all the originality, all the spice in Kikyo's life resumed in the singularity subjecs so basic had when they were hers : Her husband, one of the world's best assassins her kids, restless killers her house, a deep castle in which no one could enter and her dog, mounting guard like Cerberus in front of the gates to Hell.

Oh, what a perfect comparison, she thought while softly drinking her tea. She was sitting in the veranda, and she gazed at the rain pouring down the windows, as if they wanted to punish them in some way. Oh yes, of her house, people had all sorts of things to say, but if there was a point everybody could agree on, it sure was that it's residents were probable demons.

She put down her already empty porcelain glass, and rested her hands on her knees. She straightened her back, sitting comfortably in the majestuous seat. She was alone, of course. None of her little vessels would dare to disturb her while she was drinking tea. It was some sort of holy time, as much as bath time and sleeping time.

And, she didn't really need anyone to look after her. She could look after herself. Of course, seeing everyone wrapped around her finger, ready to go fetch her the moon if she pleases always delighted her. It was a luxury she could never quite get rid off, wich was fine, since she didn't need to. Some might think things would get boring after a while, but she still found that situation perfect.

Married for twenty years. She suddenly realized, and if she wasn't a rank A assassin, she would've probably fainted. That « little while » she thought about was going to turn into twenty years soon. Twenty years in a courteous love, twenty years of vessels, of « Miss Zoldyck », of big empty houses.

Twenty years spent loving and hating her husband, smothering her childs until they turned insane, and politely hating the rest of the world. She repressed a giggle and tried to repress those strange thoughts of hers. The monitory around her head blurred for a second, and then everything went fine.

The thing is, Miss Zoldyck had maundering for a hobby. Her mind, as clear and lucid it was, would tend to blurr and lose itself from time to time, eaten alive by paranoia and hystery. Add to that a undying love for anything sickening and creepy, and you get the reason she married a man like Silva.

By the way, let's talk about Silva. She could creep around and rant about her husband for hours. Oh, of course she loved him. She loved him as much as her little invalid heart could love anyone. But his own presence was intolerable to her. She was shaken by an urge to puke anything inside of her whenever he was around, but she wanted to die whenever he would go away.

She would have killed him with her own hands, but she couldn't get enough of her passionate nights in his company.

She sighed again, and a small smirk came to her lips. This was probably the sickening result of a relationship based on curiosity plus one unique question « Which of us is going to snap and murder the other first ? »

She thought so many times about violently wrapping her hands around his throat, at night, and she was almost certain he himself thought about poisonning her tea. But they knew both that kind of pathetic attempt weren't going to give any results, for the simple reason that they were both forming the most resistant couple in all history of mankind.

She stood up and fanned herself. She shouldn't let that kind of thoughts clogg up her mind, she suddenly thought. If she did let herself turn negative, she would throw a fit again and the furniture wouldn't make it through. Of course, she felt better. Dementia crisis were rare now, but her psychiatrist said she had to be easy on herself.

Just in case, she left the room, so full of fragile objects.

But those horrid thoughts didn't seem to let go of her, sticking to her mind like gum, creeping on her body like some sort of bloodsuckers. What did the psychiatrist said about those ? « Intrusive thoughts », something along those lines. And those just didn 't seem to let go of her.

Her legs led her to the parental room, and she caugh her reflection in the gigantic mirror she installed here. She took a long look at herself, like she often did. Her puffy dress hid everything of her body, and she couldn't see her own gazy behing the visor around her skull. For the rest of her skin, a couple of bandages got the job done.

She sighed, for the third time, and in a matter of seconds, her thoughts deflected again to focus on her husband. « That's normal » she thought. « He his my lifetime partner. Nothing wrong in thinking about him. » she whispered. « Nothing obsessive in that. » She said, defying her reflection to say otherwise.

But still, he was insufferable. With his sweet voice of his, so full of thorns though. And his endless lies and condescendings looks. So insufferable she often forgot she loved him to death, and for life.

And she didn't like his way to raise her sons. He was too nice to them, especially to Killua. She hated it. She hated it so much she could've probably killed him. With her own slander hands that she would thightly wrap around his throat until he'd let out a small whimper...

But she shouldn't think about that sort of things. After all, she was feeling better. Dementia crisis were rare now. A lot less compulsive behavior. No intrusive thoughts.

She looked at her reflection again and without her knowing why or without a warning, the mirror shattered.

She looked at her own fist with surprise, she didn't even feel the anger build up, and she didn't even realized she was trying to destroy that unpleasing reflection of hers. She didn't feel the hateful snarl take place on her face, and she didn't feel that ball of anxiety take place in her throat. Her let her hand rest by her side.

Loving Silva was as simple as chewing needles. And she was speaking by experience, as she tried both. Against all odds, those two experiences gave the same results : A stomacache and a broken voice.

She exhaled deeply, trying to soothe herself. She was feeling better. Dementia crisis were rare now. A lot less compulsive behavior. No intrusive thoughts. She told her doctor, she was feeling better.

He bit in her arm to suppress the angry yelling trying to come out of her mouth. Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of courteous love, of killing contracts and of polite fornication. Twenty years of dissapointing « I love you darling ».

She could kill him. She could do it. She knew that strenght was within her. But she'd die with him if he ever left. She let out a small whimper of desperation.

She tried again to shoo away that unrenlenting thought, growing stronger and stronger. She could kill him right away. Take out his favorite blade and stick it in his heart. That would not be hard. She would wait here, until his return. It was calling her, calling her from the second drawer of the pink desk, sitting right next to the now broken mirror.

A nice desk. She asked Silva if they could paint it a pale pink to contrast with the red curtains. He said yes, of course. He always said yes to everything, whenever she asked. He could'nt refuse his wife a single thing. He couldn't refuse her a single thing but one. He wouldn't let her educate her sons, of course. The only thing that ever mattered to her, he couldn't leave it to her, no he couldn't.

The blade was still awaiting it's time, in the drawer.

He refused that, when he knew she just couln't control herself. Doctors told him ages ago. She was obsessive. But he didn't really care about that, did he ? He didn't care, right ? He didn't care that those obessive thoughts would follow her into her days and nights.

She could almost see the blade shine in the glittering light. But she was feeling better, yes she was feeling better. It wasn't a bad thing, dreaming of murdering your husband, after all. Not in the Zoldyck family.

She sighed and got up, parted the curtains only to put them back in place right away. Useless. She had to do a more time-consuming task if she wanted to get away of those thougts. She fixed the covers on the bed, trying to think about anything but those ideas slowly dancing in her mind. Futile. She needed to do better. Was the drawer open when she entered the room ? She didn't know. She didn't know anymore. She inhaled deeply and smiled, a gorgeous smile. She was very proud of herself. She was feeling better, she even told her psychiatrist.

She had a feeling she already thought something similar before.

She let the cold knife run into her fingers and closed the drawer. But really, she couldn't stand Silva anymore. It would've been easier to not marry him in the first place. But she wasn't so sure of what her life was before him. Did she even had a life before her husband and her kids ? Ah, her wonderful kids. And Killua actually hit her. He hit her ! It was such an improvement. She was starting to think he'd never make a move against her.

She let the blade run against her finger and a small drop of blood dripped from the cut. She could hear the footsteps outside the room but she didn't care. She was thinking about her wonderfull kids and nothing could get her mind out of those wonderfull thoughts once it was into it.

Her kids were the world's most precious things, after all. They were like her, except a little more like themselves. A little more different. It was dissapointing but she didn't complain too much. At least, Kalluto liked kimonos as well.

She would've liked to have a girl, she thought suddently. Pretty girls to play dress up with. Of course, Alluka didn't count. It was written on his birth certificate that he was a boy, so she didn't understood why Killua call him his « little sister ». Maybe Killua had dementia crisis too ? Well, no. After all, she didn't had dementia crisis anymore, since she was feeling better, right ?

She giggled out loud as the door behing her opened quietly. She didn't pay attention to the tired sigh that emanated behind her back, and looked at the glistering lights running along the blade.

You broke a mirror again, didn't you darling ?

She opened her mouth as to say something, but only void escaped. The bed on which she was sitting moved a little when her huband sat as well, and a warm hand took place in the inner curve of her neck. Her smile widened.

That's a shame. It was a pretty mirror. You said you loved it.

She didn't feel any need to answer, so she didn't and took a look at the red floor.

How do you feel ? Did you had a bout ?

She frowned, of course not ! She didn't had any bout, any crisis, any attack. That kind of things didn't happen anymore, for god's sake. She got a better grip on the knife.

Not at all, my love.

I see. That's good to hear.

Did she feel sarcasm ? Was he mocking her ? Was he trying to insinuate she didn't made any progress ? The hand slowly ran and found it's place on her hip, and Silva's breath came closer, caressing her neck.

It's soon time for dinner. We'll have to go .

Dinner already ? I wouldn've swore I drank tea moments ago.

Her husband didn't answer. Her smile became wider, maybe too wide. She could kill him right now. The occasion would've been perfect. But the knife fell on the floor, and so it was too late.

Kikyo ?

Yes my love ?

I love you darling.

Too bad. But she had time. She lived all her days alone in that castle when she wasn't off killing people. She still had a couple of bright years in front of herself. And with her mental state getting better and better, her wonderfull kids learning faster and faster, and that lovely husband who made her want to puke by his only presence, those could only be delectable.

I love you too, darling.

Yes, she thought, her smile still on her face. She had a lot of time on her hands.

* * *

Sooooo, yeah.

Kikyo is actually a very compulsive person, I'm not exactly sure of wich kind of disorder she would have but I'm pretty sure she does.

Secondly, I know Alluka is a MtF Trans person, don't worry, I wouldn't misgender her. Love Alluka. It's just that well, Kikyo does misgender her and the narrator is more or less following her POV.

(And yes she is slowly losing control and lucidity over her dementia crisis ugh. )

Please, if you have any idea on how to improve this One Shot, just shoot me a review and we'll discuss about it, okay? I'm searching for new ways to improve my english.

Don't forget to leave a review if you liked this, it would be totally great!

Thanks for reading, have a very nice day.


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